


All The Love You Write

by IneffableDoll



Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [16]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Asexual Aziraphale (Good Omens), Asexual Crowley (Good Omens), Asexuality, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gay Panic, Historical References, I wrote all of Crowley's love letters with a real quill and inkwell, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Love Letters, M/M, Miscommunication, Pining, Romance, and included pictures of them in the fic!, light blips of angst here and there, over and over
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-06
Updated: 2020-08-06
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:47:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25751566
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableDoll/pseuds/IneffableDoll
Summary: “Aziraphale,I don’t hate being around you. It’s not the worst thing ever to talk to you.-C”____________Crowley tries to confess his love for Aziraphale in a letter, but his inability to find the right words simply leaves Aziraphale confused. It takes him over a millennium of love letters to find the correct ones. Sweetness abounds.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Ineffable Confessions of Love [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714558
Comments: 49
Kudos: 155
Collections: Aspec-friendly Good Omens





	All The Love You Write

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Ketty Lester’s “Love Letters.”  
> I went into this thinking “haha easy baby fic about love letters through history” and accidentally spent a lot of time researching the history of papermaking and 19th century letter etiquette and the invention of Italian and Mafenide Acetate Cream and on and ON. Why does this always happen? I swear I spent more time *researching* for this fic then actually *writing* this fic.  
> Also, yes, I actually wrote all of Crowley’s letters here with my quill – which I do have to dip, it’s not a fountain pen – and took pictures of them. They’re all embedded in the fic. It took me quite a while (not very good with the quill, especially being left-handed), so I hope they add some extra flair to the experience!  
> (Sorry my cursive is so messy. Let’s all just agree that it’s part of the authenticity…or just blame Crowley.)  
> (Side note: I realize that Crowley’s struggle with writing in this fic can easily come across as ableist against various learning disabilities, most notably dyslexia. Please know that I never make fun of Crowley for his difficulty in writing in this, and that it is not at all my intent to ever do so. I apologize if anything in here comes across as offensive.)  
> Anyway, hope you enjoy.

Writing, Crowley decided, was definitely an invention of Hell.

Just – all those different letters, symbols, shapes, sideways and down and around! All those infuriating, minute changes between one and the next, alphabets and homonyms and linguistic variation. It was difficult enough to keep up with there being so many spoken languages since that whole Babel fiasco, but then the languages kept _changing_ and _evolving_ and then started getting _written down-_

The point. The point was. It _sucked._

Mostly because Crowley sucked at it.

It was sometime in the 7th century and, while doing temptations in Japan, Crowley discovered that human literacy had moved on from the days of clay tablets, bones, leather, and bamboo and the like, and onto papermaking – something that China apparently came up with first. It was a step up from papyrus, at least in theory, but there was this whole process with block printing that was just…a pain, really. So even the physical act of writing was laborious.

But, ultimately, Crowley’s anger at writing was really for words, and, more specifically, his inability to find the right ones.

And it was rather important he did…because he was penning a love letter.

While demons, as a whole, were not made to express love, that didn’t mean they couldn’t feel it, all the same. Further, while humans and angels could project their love into the air – usually subconsciously – demons lacked this ability entirely. As a result, those demons who felt love had to resort to other methods of showing their affections…though, as vulnerability was generally a terrible idea, few demons had the cause to even do that much.

One. Exactly one demon did.

Thus, love letter.

Crowley had felt things for Aziraphale for – well, a long time. The specifics were just unnecessary, though he suspected somewhere between _I gave it away_ and _let me tempt you to-_ there was some cosmic hiccup that accidentally gave him Feelings. He wasn’t pleased with them.

He was supposed to fear and hate the angel, but he never had. Not since the Beginning.

By now, he had his suspicions that these pesky little things – attachment, longing, fondness – could possibly be mutual between him and this angel who never seemed to fully leave the demon’s thoughts, who couldn’t hide how pleased he was to see Crowley at every turn no matter how he tried, who was kind to him even when he didn’t have to be.

Still, after all this time, Crowley had yet to _tell_ Aziraphale about this little, minor development, since Aziraphale wouldn’t be able to read it in the atmosphere or however the Heaven one senses these things. It was just a small, tiny addition to their – friendship, or…whatever. He didn’t know what to call it. Not their relationship(?), not their Feelings. Not _his_ Feelings. They made him feel sticky and he caught himself humming various romantic ditties over the years.

Now that he’d had a few centuries to settle into this development, he’d decided that the best course of action might be to address it. With words. Problem was, as eloquent as Crowley might be with a temptation, his brain tended to fizzle a bit around Aziraphale, and words became a futile chore. No, that was definitely a terrible idea. Words, out loud. He didn’t have the guts for it, anyway.

(Besides, he’d never, not once, tried to discuss personal things like this before with anybody. To do that, he’d need to actually feel safe.)

The discovery of easily transportable paper, for writing messages on, gave Crowley the idea of writing a love letter (not that that’s what he called it). That way, he could form the words ahead of time, could meticulously plan it out.

Aziraphale was someone who had always appreciated tangibility in words, so it felt right.

Crowley spent hours on his letter and scrapped it multiple times before working out what to say, and eventually, wound up with something he was satisfied with.

_Aziraphale,_

_I don’t hate being around you. It’s not the worst thing ever to talk to you._

_-C_

Crowley scrutinized the finished letter carefully, the kanji and kana careful and delicate. He was at the point in the writing process wherein one has reread the words they’ve written so many times that language loses all meaning and comprehension is lost to the volcanic mold of molten rock, set in stone simply for lack of understanding how to further excavate.

The point is, he felt like it was pretty good. It was honest, raw. Quite frankly, it was probably the sappiest thing he had ever said or written since time was invented.

_So_ , he thought to himself, more than a little anxious. _I’m finally telling him about the Feelings._ He could only hope it didn’t ruin what they had.

Crowley gave it to Aziraphale the next time they saw each other, the letter burning a metaphorical hole in his pocket for the next couple of decades. The demon was a twitchy, nervous wreck as he handed it over, and the angel read it, then reread it twice more.

Aziraphale looked back up at him, inscrutable, soft hands still carefully holding the small, folded piece. He seemed taken aback and blinked a couple of times. “Um, er,” he stammered. Crowley couldn’t tell if being at a loss for words was a good or bad thing in this scenario. “We’ve known each other for five thousand years,” Aziraphale said slowly, calculated, “so I would hope you don’t hate being around me. But, um, it’s n- er, goo- well, I’m glad to know, nonetheless, I suppose.”

Crowley nodded sharply, holding his breath. “Right.”

Aziraphale nodded back awkwardly. “Good, then. Um, what would you say to some lunch?”

Crowley blinked. This wasn’t what he’d expected from his declaration, and he had the sinking feeling that he’d not gotten the words quite right, after all.

Afterward, Crowley rewound the conversation in his head obsessively. He couldn’t understand it, to be honest – which he usually was, even if he wouldn’t be about that. He knew Aziraphale, and he knew his reactions, so it was obvious that somehow, Crowley’s message – despite being so clear and straightforward and _written down_ – hadn’t been received properly.

The demon sighed, knowing that it meant he’d have to undergo the same heart-stopping endeavor over again if he was to make his Feelings clear.

~*{O}*~

Crowley was disheartened enough by his attempt at baring his demonic soul that it took another seven centuries before he tried again. Literacy was vaguely on the rise in Europe and the plagues he didn’t know were coming had yet to strike the heart of the Western world. It took him a while to get used to quills (he had even wondered about making one of his own feathers into a quill, but couldn’t decide if that was demeaning or not), but once he did, he sat down to write his second love letter to Aziraphale.

This one, he worked on and revised over the course of multiple days.

_To Angel,_

_I am not miserable when we see each other. Seeing you makes me feel things that are not terrible and, as such, I do not dread when we meet._

_-C_

He nodded in satisfaction after writing this, pressing his lips together as he studied it. It was more vulnerable than he ever let himself be, and he even added the personal touch of using his, er, _nickname_ – yes, we’ll call it that – for Aziraphale. Talking about Feelings…blech, it left a sour taste in his mouth. But it was worthwhile if it would help Aziraphale understand exactly what the angel meant to him.

He wanted Aziraphale to understand, and, maybe, he wanted to be understood, too.

He happened to run into Aziraphale only weeks later and thrust the letter at him with a mumbled, “Wrote you something,” in lieu of a greeting.

Aziraphale gave him a curious look, not unlike the one after reading the last letter, then read it carefully.

When he looked back up, Crowley was tugging on the sleeves of his doublet anxiously. “Well?” Crowley said.

Aziraphale studied him for a long moment before shaking his head slightly. “Er, it’s a – a well-written letter, Crowley. Your Latin is excellent. But, uh, might I ask…why are you writing me these, uh, _sentiments_ when we could just talk to each other?”

Crowley resisted sighing in defeat. “It’s, er – something the humans do. Sending letters. Just thought I’d…” He flapped his hand at the paper uselessly and shrugged like it didn’t matter.

Aziraphale smiled at him, then. “Yes, human customs and their literature are really expanding so rapidly lately, aren’t they?” He clapped his hands together excitedly, slightly creasing the paper in his hands, and Crowley winced involuntarily. “In fact, I’ve heard of this very popular poet named Alighieri who’s been writing in something called _Italian_ …”

Their conversation ambled from there, and Crowley found himself struggling to pay close attention. Why couldn’t he just find the right words?

~*{O}*~

It was the early seventeenth century and writing was more popular than Crowley had ever seen it. Crowley was pleased to see theatre make a comeback alongside the literary rise. He’d really thrived off all those so-called “pagan” plays in Greece (which he obviously took credit for) and the traditional theatre found in some African cultures – the Xhosa, Zulu, and Khoisan people of southern Africa, The Akan people of Ghana. However, it hadn’t been popular in Europe in ages, which is where he was assigned.

Inundated with inspiration and surrounded by poets and playwrights and novelists and songwriters, the romance of the literary world pumped up like rarely before, Crowley struggled again to write a new love letter. However, try as he may, he failed to conjure anything that captured the essence of what he saw around him. How did all these humans manage to flawlessly dedicate entire lifetimes to language when he couldn’t seem to manage even a few sentences that sounded the way he wanted them to? As usual, the words escaped him, elusive and tough to pin conclusively.

Suffering from immense writer’s block and more than a little jealousy, he settled for recommending the words of that British man Aziraphale had taken a liking to the past few decades.

_Dear Aziraphale,_

_I may detest_ Hamlet _with every atom of my demonic soul, but the sonnets aren’t bad. I recommend 125, and 29, and 116._

_-Crowley_

It felt weirdly personal to write his full name on the letter and hoped that might make up for simply directing the angel to sonnets on love, rather than writing one of his own. Even Crowley had enough self-awareness to know that such an endeavor could only end poorly. Besides, William had stolen his line for Cleopatra – _age cannot wither_ and such – so fair’s fair, he decided. His _one_ good line and he wouldn’t even get proper credit for it! He should invent copyrights soon and somehow make it sound demonic to his superiors.

Anyway, he elected to mail this one to Aziraphale through the postal system – Royal Mail, established 1516 – partially for his own sanity and partially in direct opposition to such.

For the first time, Crowley received a letter in reply, some weeks later.

_Dear Crowley,_

_The sonnets you recommended were most beautiful and I do appreciate you bringing them to my attention. And, say what you will about_ Hamlet, _Crowley, but I am still most grateful for how you popularized it._

_Yours respectfully,_

_Aziraphale_

It definitely wasn’t a success. Still, Crowley traced the word _yours_ for hours and made sure to keep the letter safely with him as the centuries continued to wear on them both.

~*{O}*~

By the nineteenth century, things had, frankly, gotten out of hand.

Letters – especially love letters – were _everywhere_ , and there were so many blessed rules for going about writing them! There was endless etiquette to the handwriting, the addressing, the format…Crowley was lost.

First, apparently you weren’t supposed to address people by their first names, but by their title (easy enough, he already called Aziraphale by his title, for the most part). Next, date and location went in the upper-righthand corner, the sender must sign off with a full name, and stamps were a requirement that only got more expensive by the decade (one of his better ideas). Crossing – writing lines across lines to maximize paper space – was considered uncouth despite the expense of writing materials. Women were taught to use a “fine hand” and men a “medium hand,” whatever that meant. Also, underlining was bad. For some reason. Rewrite if there is blotting. Never use foolscap paper or a half-sheet. Only use black ink. _Blah, blah, blah._

Even the color of the wax seal carried all these _implications_ Crowley couldn’t be bothered to learn. And that wasn’t even touching on the colors of papers, which left Crowley more confused than never. Also, only women could use perfumed papers, and _why in the world was the paper perfumed anyway, what the Heaven is the point of that?_ Honestly, he nearly preferred having to deal with Caligula.

Really, the only thing no one seemed to care about was standardized spelling and punctuation.

Crowley liked red and figured that’d just have to be fine for the wax, and went for a bluish-tinted paper which, of course, had to match the envelope or he’d be seen as a cretin by the fine members of the London populace. Satan, he hated etiquette so very much. He considered mismatching them on principle but figured Aziraphale mightn’t appreciate such a transgression. He ran a bookshop, after all. Can’t go around sending mismatched paper to bookshop owners – Aziraphale had _standards._

By this point, Crowley’s struggle with expressing emotions in words was a well-worn path, verbally and in writing. It was made no easier by his blips of practice across the millennia. The rules he struggled to learn weighed him down and, ultimately, he made use of almost none of them in a bout of self-preservation and demonic exasperation.

_Dear Angel,_

_Your bookshop reminds me of my head with how cluttered it is with you. Unrelated, you probably ought to clean it, soon. The dust spores are getting out of hand._

_From, Crowley_

He rewrote his signing off a dozen times. Most people wrote things like “your loving sister” and “your beloved mother” and “most affectionally yours,” but he couldn’t very well write, “your adoring demon,” could he? He certainly wanted to – and did on one rough draft – but eventually settled for the closest thing that wouldn’t cause him to burst into flames.

The content of the letter was true, too. That bookshop was very cluttered with _Aziraphale._ Clustered with his books and snuffboxes and things he collected and stored. He’d only had it a few decades, and already, it looked like a museum dedicated to the Principality Aziraphale and all his interests – just like Crowley sometimes felt his brain was. It seemed like a pretty romantic sentiment to him.

This letter, Crowley also sent through the post, which was getting more efficient these days but still took much too long for Crowley’s taste. The letter was quite surprised to find itself delivered within a few scant hours of its first appearance at the post office.

Crowley received no reply, which worried him until he remembered he hadn’t told Aziraphale his new address yet. Crowley was looking for a place in London, somewhat near the bookshop, under the pretense of keeping an eye on Heaven’s Agent (It wasn’t a complete lie. He fully intended to keep an eye on Aziraphale. Yes, watching as he ate fancy foods and attended operas and ranted about historical inaccuracies in modern literature. But Hell wasn’t interested in the details, of course).

And then, Crowley worried again, anyway, because, come to think of it, not knowing his address hadn’t stopped the angel from replying the last time, had it?

Shortly thereafter, Crowley swung by the bookshop to tempt Aziraphale off to a new creperie he’d discovered that was supposed to rival those of Revolutionary Paris (but without the threat of Joseph-Ignace Guillotin’s inspired invention). To his surprise, confusion, and even a bit of hurt, he found himself to be on the receiving end of a distinctly cold shoulder (Metaphorically, though it was winter, and Crowley could feel that to his bones).

“Perhaps if we saw less of each other,” Aziraphale said coolly, “your head would not be so ‘cluttered’ of me, and it would be easier to clean it out, as you seem keen to do.”

Crowley blinked at him, feeling as though he’d stumbled down not only a couple of steps, but an entire flight of stairs. “What?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, hands folded over his stomach. “Your letter. You said – well, _implied_ that you wished to clean your head of thoughts of me.”

“I _what now?!”_ Crowley stared at him, reflecting on the letter he’d sent. His eyebrows shot up his forehead as it struck him how easily his poor word choice could be misconstrued precisely in the way Aziraphale appeared to have done.

“That isn’t how I meant that, angel,” Crowley clarified quickly, waving his hand about as though it might explain his thoughts better than his mouth could. Oh, if only. “I just meant that you – you’re in my thoughts a lot. That’s – that’s not necessarily a _bad_ thing, you know. Besides” – he punctuated this with a dramatic, spread-arm flair – “I said you should clean your bookshop, not my head.”

Aziraphale glanced up as though hoping for heavenly guidance before looking back to Crowley, a touch sheepish, a touch agitated. “Well,” he said in a tone that said so much more, “I must say, Crowley, I’m not sure similes are your thing.”

Crowley winced. That was – yeah, that was true. He’d avoid similes in the future.

~*{O}*~

It’s 1862, and there is a park, and there is a scrap of paper with two words on it.

_Holy Water._

Neither Crowley nor Aziraphale would not come to see this as a love letter for many, many years.

~*{O}*~

Crowley’s next letter, a year later…

_Dear Angel,_

_I know you don’t want to hear from me right now, but-_

…went unread.

~*{O}*~

Nearly a century apart had Crowley convinced his memory must have gone faulty, for when he finally saw his angel again, his first thought was, _oh, I forgot how pretty he is._

Thankfully, he was quickly distracted by some blasted Nazis and a bomb, keeping himself from doing something foolish like saying that thought aloud in the middle of a rescue mission (though he tried to make a note to use that in a letter one day – er, if that was a thing he could do again? Their status quo was…off, lately).

After Crowley handed Aziraphale those books (writings by people who know how to use their words in a way Aziraphale understood, and he ignored the pang of jealousy), Aziraphale gave him a long, open look the demon didn’t know what to do with. He wanted to fall to his knees and confess his undying love then and there, or something.

But, frankly, he already had burns on his soles. No need to rough up the knees. And maybe, _maybe_ he was still hurt by the eighty-year radio silence and had lost most of his motivation to do anything with those Satan-forsaken Feelings that clung to him like – like…whatever things cling to. _Similes, bah._

Dropping Aziraphale off at the bookshop, Crowley held out hope for an invitation in and, much to his and his hope’s surprise, was not disappointed. The evening was awkward, at first, but melted quickly into a comfortable banter, as though no time had passed at all. Neither mentioned the holy water, and Crowley felt decades of anger and frustration and loneliness begin to evaporate.

Late that night – after returning to his flat much later than was proprietary – he couldn’t resist the siren’s call, and sat down to write a new letter, his hope rekindled and burning.

He wrote without thinking, sealed the letter, and snapped it straight into the bookshop without a second thought.

_Dearest Angel,_

_Seeing you again was like being set on fire. In a not painful way, aside from the feet. We’ve gone centuries without crossing paths in the past, but this time felt a lot longer. I hope I see you again in less than a century._

_Sincerely, Anthony J. Crowley_

As he soaked his blessed feet in ice water, he stared at the ceiling and thought about love.

Yes, fine. He could use the word _love,_ admit that it wasn’t just Feelings. It was love.

He’d been in love with Aziraphale so long, it was like a reflex. A well-worn muscle, an oft-trodden path cut through the grass, a habit so ingrained it was impossible to imagine it separate from his sense of self. He thought about how desperately he wanted to be able to share that love with the angel who had always had it, and the apparent futility of it all.

He feared telling Aziraphale with every vein and tendon of his demonic corporation in a way that only ballooned in the centuries that had passed since he first tried to, but he also had an inherent optimism that made him desperate. He never lied to Aziraphale, not really. Only the white lies everyone said – _I’m fine, don’t worry about me_ – but this…this was big.

It wasn’t a lie not to say it, he figured. But it wasn’t the truth not to, either, and for someone who liked answers as much as questions, he had never shied from truths.

When Crowley finally dragged his consciousness back to his body, he noticed a small white canister of some ointment on the hard, unwieldy sofa beside him labeled _Sulfamylon Cream_. It had not been there five minutes prior. He picked it up curiously and squinted at it in the low light of his flat with an eyebrow perched high.

It was a topical treatment for skin infections and _severe burns._

His brain couldn’t decide on being bewildered or awed and settled somewhere between the two. Was this an answer to his letter? Did Aziraphale understand what he was trying to communicate with it?

He had no way of knowing for sure.

Oblivious to the standard procedures of mesh gauze, Crowley slathered the cream directly onto his burned feet after drying them with a towel. He watched in fascination as the burns cooled from their angry red and skin stitched itself together. This was clearly not your ordinary _Sulfamylon._

He leaned back into his sofa and closed his eyes, body thrumming with the relief of his easing pain. Maybe that was answer enough, for now.

~*{O}*~

And then it wasn’t enough, nothing would be enough, because none of it mattered and there was a basket in the backseat of his Bentley.

Though, it was less about the basket than what lay inside the basket. He turned a sharp corner, swearing under his breath when the Adversary, Destroyer of Kings, Angel of the Bottomless Pit, Great Beast That is Called Dragon, Prince of This World, Father of Lies, Spawn of Satan, and Lord of Darkness blubbered and cried at the harsh jostle to his wicker crib.

He cursed whatever idiotic instinct it was in him that was struck dumb with fear at the sound of a crying baby. Hadn’t he been there when the first baby had wailed into the night? Hadn’t he snuck up to see it close, disguised as a snake, when Eve and Adam had turned? Hadn’t he flicked a tongue at its plush, soft cheek, and known for the second time what it was to want to protect something he should destroy?

His very infernal core shuddered at the sound, anyway. This was no ordinary baby.

It took some cajoling, but not too much, to get Aziraphale on his side to work together against Armageddon. It didn’t take a genius to see that the angel didn’t really want the War, no matter what words he aligned. Neither of them did. It wasn’t really about composers and gorillas and Maria von Trapp, anyway. Crowley could tell from the start that Aziraphale’s eyes were begging to be convinced. Tempted. And _that’s your job, isn’t it?_

Crowley could feel their time waning short. Only a decade with change, really, and then it would all be over, one way or another – or, preferably, the third, unseen _other_. As always, Crowley was an optimist.

Didn’t stop him from getting drunk again immediately after doing so with Aziraphale, though. They parted ways (Aziraphale was always uncomfortable if Crowley was at the bookshop too long, lest someone notice), and Crowley ambled to some club where the music would pound loud enough that he might not hear his thoughts, just for a bit.

He wasn’t sloshed beyond comprehension when he stumbled back to his flat and collapsed in his throne and began writing another love letter, but it was pretty dang close. It had been a long time since he put any amount of craftsmanship into his letters, and scotch burning in the pit of his stomach didn’t aid his eloquence.

Words spilled across the page, along with a bit of the whiskey he was nursing and a lot of the ink he was failing to write with. It would be an impressive feat if the recipient could decipher it at all, really.

_My Angel,_

_Your eyes are like little blue orbs. Your face has wrinkles that make you look happy. Your hands are ~~all fleshy~~ soft and leathery like a book cover. Which you have a lot of. Books, not hands, just the two. You don’t need more than two so that’s good._

_Yours, Crowley_

Crowley, apparently forgetting he was a powerful, supernatural entity with the powers of Hell pulsing from his core, walked from Mayfair to Soho in the middle of the night and left the letter on the doorstep. After walking back, he collapsed onto his bed without bothering to sober up.

He woke up hungover and gave a long, melodramatic groan as he flopped an arm over his eyes, sunlight streaming through the crack in his blackout curtains. Unfortunately, his demonic brain had no concept of the effect of alcohol on human memory storing processes and left the demon with a stunningly Ultra High Definition, 4K resolution, front-row experience of his drunken antics the night before.

He lowered his arm to reach for his phone on the nightstand and instead found himself glaring at a bottle of aspirin and a glass of water. There was a folded piece of paper beside the mysterious objects. Crowley sat up quickly (G- Sa- Someone, was that a _mistake_ ) and grabbed at it.

_Dear Crowley,_

_If my eyes are little blue orbs, yours are surely twin suns. I hope you thought to sober yourself before you undoubtedly wasted the night away in Sloth, but in case you haven’t, I’ve miracled some aspirin to your bedside._

_With care, Angel_

Crowley was fully awake now and, his headache be blessed, all he could think were the words _twin suns_ and _with care_ and _angel._

There was something significant about the use of Aziraphale’s nickname to sign off the letter, but, for the life of him, Crowley couldn’t understand it. He vaguely wondered if the reason Aziraphale never understood his letters was that they were somehow writing in different languages entirely.

~*{O}*~

Crowley woke up from his week-long nap post-body-swap trial nonsense, feeling refreshed and determined.

He could still remember it, and probably would never forget. How the world had felt, for that horrible time (Someone, how had it only been a couple of hours?) when he had borne witness to a world without Aziraphale in it.

Crowley had always loved humans. He loved them, and their idiosyncrasies and their cleverness. And even if they could be worse than Hell, so, too, could they be better than Heaven (though that was, admittedly, a low bar). They were crafty and imaginative, fascinating and strange. Always changing, and always the same. Asking questions, inventing answers, seeking truths and hiding behind lies. He had loved Eve from the start, had loved them all, always.

The point was that Crowley, when he set about to stop Armageddon, thought he knew exactly what he was fighting for.

He discovered, when he walked out of a bookshop in flames and dropped his cracked sunglasses to the pavement, that he had clearly not had a clue. Because the humans were still here, and suddenly, the world was no longer worth saving.

He’d thought, then, that if he had one more minute with Aziraphale, he would have used it to tell him how he felt.

That was over now, he reminded himself as he stood from his bed, snapped his usual attire back on, then snapped it away for a black dress when the outfit reminded him too strongly of the Days That Hadn’t Really Happened. Everything was back to the way it was, the bookshop hadn’t burned, and no one was watching them anymore (aside from the Almighty, but who knew what They were doing at any given point? Crowley sure as Somewhere didn’t know).

But that didn’t erase the honest truth that Crowley remembered it. He remembered the dry heat, the tear tracks down his face, and his desire, in those few hours, for one last opportunity to get his words in the right order.

He’d almost lost his chance. Yet, he had another one, now, in this new world where they both alive and free. Crowley would be a fool to waste it.

He sat down in his throne and, for what he was sure would be the last time, wrote a love letter to Aziraphale.

~*{O}*~

Because Crowley was not a fool, he also brought the angel’s favorite pastries from his favorite bakery when he showed up at the bookshop an hour later.

“Angel!” he called as soon as he entered, scanning the room with a mixture of fondness for the familiar sight and wariness, as though it might reveal a smudge of soot if he squinted hard enough.

There was a bang from the back room then a fumbling, “C-Crowley! You’re awake! Be there in the shake of a lamb’s tail, dear!”

Crowley ventured deeper into the bookshop, heedless of the angel’s words. Aziraphale was hastily shoving closed a drawer at his desk as he turned to Crowley, already beaming that angelic smile of his. Really, it wasn’t fair, having something that bright turned on him the moment he showed up. How was he supposed to _think?_

“Hey, angel,” he said, finding, to his horror, that he was grinning back just as wide. “Brought you something.”

“Oh, you shouldn’t have!” Aziraphale exclaimed, already accepting the box, and peered inside with an appreciative glance. “Ah, chocolate chip biscuits and lemon tarts! Thank you.”

Routine and habit told him to fob off the gratefulness, but he took a deep breath and nodded. “You’re welcome. There’s something else, too.”

“Oh?”

Crowley held out the letter wordlessly, trying not to burst into flames or run out the door screaming or something.

Aziraphale looked at the letter with wide eyes, placing the box on his desk without looking away. Tentatively, he reached out for the letter, eyes flicking up to Crowley’s for a moment. Crowley considered taking off his sunglasses but couldn’t work up the courage. This was nerve-wracking enough as it was.

Aziraphale unfolded the page, for that was all it was. No envelope. No form of address, no sign-off, no names. Just eight words.

_I feel the opposite of fear for you._

Aziraphale blinked at it, then blinked again. “Oh,” he breathed softly, almost reverent. _“Oh.”_

“Do you, I dunno…” Crowley gestured awkwardly with the hand not stuck into the pocket of his dress (which wouldn’t dare to not have pockets, thank you). “Do you understand?”

“Crowley,” Aziraphale murmured, looking up with bright, amazed eyes. “You love me.”

The demon nodded jerkily, feeling something in him click. _Those were the words_. “Been…trying to tell you.”

Aziraphale turned then, suddenly, and gently pulled open the drawer he’d been fumbling with earlier. He pulled out six pieces of paper from within, each older than the last, each worn with centuries of handling, caressing, creasing – and with the slight hum of a blessing indicating that it wasn’t entirely natural that they hadn’t crumbled to dust by now.

“You – are those-“

The angel nodded shyly. “I – I always hoped, you know,” he said, holding his collection of love letters reverently. “But I could never quite tell if I was, well, reading them right.”

Crowley swallowed thickly. “You were. Are. Not exactly, um, romantic. I couldn’t really figure out how to say what I wanted to, usually, but…”

Aziraphale looked back up at him, finally, cradling the letters in one hand against his chest as he reached up and, carefully, when Crowley didn’t stop him, removed the sunglasses.

“Crowley, I’ve never read anything more romantic in my life, because _you_ wrote them,” he whispered, leaning onto his toes to brush a kiss to Crowley’s cheek.

Until the day the Earth spun itself out, Hell froze over, and Heaven fell from the sky, Crowley would deny to his last metaphorical breath that he whimpered at the contact.

Once he recovered from his heart palpitations, Crowley grinned sappily and Aziraphale turned a lovely shade of vermillion as he returned it. They stood there for a moment, smiling and blushing and being very disgustingly in love.

“Well, uh,” Crowley attempted, “that’s. Er. Glad that…yes.” Crowley's tongue tripped over itself as it tried embarrassingly to fill the space between them. Words. Words! Oh, bless them all!

“It’s okay, Crowley,” Aziraphale reassured with a small chuckle, cupping Crowley’s pink cheeks. “Don’t you think you’ve always been a little better with actions?”

What clearer permission could a demon ask for?

Crowley leaned closer and weaved tales of dazzling romance without a sound.

~*{O}*~

After deciding the sofa was really much more comfortable for these lip-adjacent developments, the two sat side by side on the sofa, hands clasped between them.

Unable to resist the aching pull of the conversations they both valued so much in each other, they interspersed their newfound, innocent touches with talk. They reread Crowley’s old letters, revisiting the cherished memories of when they were given and trading tales of their thoughts at the time – things they had never before dared to give voice to, never possibly could. Aziraphale swooned as Crowley complained about block printing; Crowley reddened as Aziraphale explained smugly that the light red wax seal he had used in the 19th century symbolized happy love.

(Aziraphale also very regretfully admitted to throwing away that first letter after the holy water request. Crowley sheepishly admitted it was rather undignified, so really, he couldn’t find it in him to mind.)

So, perhaps Crowley had never been good at expressing love. Maybe words would never be his thing. But it was also true that he was learning, and that Aziraphale, his angel, was learning to understand him.

Besides, what was really important – the act of loving, and of loving Aziraphale?

Well, with that, Crowley had plenty of practice.

**Author's Note:**

> There you have it! Hope you liked!  
> I made sure to give Crowley and Aziraphale different handwriting, so I hope you were able to tell (my hands are going to be stained with all these ink smudges for days, aren’t they?).  
> If you enjoyed this, you may like my last fic, [I’ve no intention of confessing today](https://archiveofourown.org/works/25453792) , which also features Crowley writing love letters because apparently, I have a thing for that. That fic is what inspired this one and, if you look, I’ll bet you can find the sentence that set this one on its course.  
> Thank you for reading this mess! Give me your thoughts if you’d like!


End file.
